Cold Nights
by General-Senyaka98
Summary: Dean's first thought was: why am I upside down? His second thought was: Sammy's dead.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer- Supernatural is so far from being mine that it hurts me physically.

Summery- Dean's first thought was: why am I upside down? His second thought was: Sammy's dead.

Happy Birthday A/N- Today (April 26) is my fourteenth birthday and I had a goal to have thirteen decent stories (or first chapter of a story) on here by then. It's kind of like a goodbye to my first year as an official teenager. Success! I also read that a great way to defeat the overpowering evil that is writer's block is to write more than one story at once. I have decided that that claim is completely false. Oh well.

Cold Nights

Chapter one-

Dean had been driving all night, and exhaustion was beginning to overpower him. His legs were starting to cramp in the limited space and his arms needed a rest. His discomfort was probably nothing, though, when compared to Sam, who was trying unsuccessfully to fall asleep.

Sam, being the impossibly tall one in the duo, was smashed between the seat and the dashboard. It wasn't like Dean really wanted to make his brother uncomfortable. He kept pushing himself up, like that would give his legs more room. Dean watched comical dance like motion, cocking his head to his left shoulder.

He yanked his eyes away from the jig for a few moments in order to pull over at the side of the road. He unclasped his seatbelt and lightly nudged his brother. "C'mon Sammy, time to taffy-fy your muscles." He pushed his door open with his foot, still jarring Sam.

"G'way." Sam babbled, turning away from Dean and pressing his forehead against the cold window. His breathing became thick and heavy, so Dean scooted out of the Impala backwards, closing the door lightly so as not to jolt Sam. The stark contrast between the toasty interior of the Impala and the icy wind outside sent a violent shiver down his spine.

He glanced up at the beautiful night sky. The stars glowed brilliantly in the inky night, acting as a night light that guarded everything from the darkness and all that came with it. Dean remembered how he and Sam used to stretch out on the hood of the Impala and watch the stars glisten. Dean would be working on his third beer while Sam would ramble about the legend or story that each constellation carried.

After stretching out a bit and running around the Impala he shuffled back to the driver's side door. He looked in through the window at Sammy, who had at some point scooted over and was sitting in the driver's seat. His hands were grasping the wheel and his face was set: he was all ready to drive away.

Hell no.

"Hey Sam, move your meat over a little bit." Dean said, lightly shoving his brother's shoulder, knowing what was about to happen and mentally preparing himself from fighting it.

"No, Dean. You need to sleep. Besides, it's my turn to drive." Sam's hazel eyes were locked on the dark shadows dancing on the road ahead of him. Dean knew what Sam thought he was going to say (_Since when do we take turns driving my baby?) _and probably had an argument all worked out, so he shook his head.

"Like hell it is." Dean tried once more to move his brother but (_when did he get so heavy? It feels like just yesterday I could pick him up.)_ His arms gave out and he was launched forward, his head knocking into Sam's painfully. They both yelped and flew back, Dean to the road and Sam across the front two seats of the Impala. By the time Dean got up Sam had righted himself and had a big ole bitch face going on.

"Dean-" Sam began, watching his brother slowly approach his like a pissed of momma lion, trying to protect her baby (Impala) from papa lion (Sammy?).

"Move it little boy!" He tried to slip over onto Sam's lap, pretty confident that Sammy would move after being placed in such an awkward position. He cringed when he realized that there was no way they were both going to fit. But he shifted around until he was sitting Indian style on Sam's aching lap, neck bent and head scrunched on the ceiling.

He wondered if that was how Sam felt sometimes, being so damn tall and everything.

"If I were so little, this would be way less painful." Sam murmured under Dean. He snaked his arm around Dean's waist and planted the other firmly on his belly. Dean looked down into his eyes, not looking forward to what he knew was his baby brother's next move.

_Sweet Jesus, have mercy. Don't let my neck snap! _

_Flip. _

For a moment he thought the world around him was spinning, he was upside down, and then his ass thumped against something cushiony. If there wasn't enough room for their combined height sitting down, how the hell could he be forced to do some odd back flip into the passenger seat without his head banging up against something and cracking open?

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Sam adjusted himself until he was relatively comfortable and shifted the gear. He moved them back onto the road and continued driving where Dean had left off. Dean leaned back in the seat, which Sammy had warmed earlier with his big ass, and enjoyed the sensation of the hot air the heater was blasting out on him. It was like a big fluffy blanket- a thought never to be repeated to Sam for fear of a ruined reputation and years of unending mocking- and his muscles slowly relaxed.

"I love my baby." He mumbled with a slight slur, reaching out with his calloused hand to pat the dashboard lovingly.

"The Impala. " Sam smiled, letting his fingers massage the steering wheel.

"Metalicar."

"Home."

"Sampala." That earned Dean a smart smack on his shoulder. Sam had really hoped that would never again be brought up in sober conversation, and his endeavor to keep it like that had been successful for a long time. But he really couldn't have expected that dean would never bring it up.

Dean sat there, rubbing his newly dented shoulder, and thought about the stars.

They drove for a whiled longer before Dean's eyelids began to feel heavy as iron. He fought the tempting drowsiness, willing himself to just stay awake. But his baby was humming and making such soothing sounds and they sped down the long, smooth road.

Blink. Don't you do it!

Blink. Damnit!

Blink. No!

Blink….

Deans head flopped lethargically against the seat's headrest. His eyes lolled shut, rolling around a little in the darkness before settling on a spot. A snore crawled up from deep down in his throat.

XXX

Sam peeked at a sleeping Dean and couldn't hold back his smile. He was snoring like a motorboat, sounding a bit like a purring tiger. Sam knew he was going to be out for a long long time. "Not tired my ass." He muttered to himself, suppressing the urge to follow his brother's example and fall asleep as well.

Sam looked tiredly at the street in front of him, wondering how long it was going to take before they got to the next seedy hotel so he could wake up Dean and fall over on the grimy bed, not making sure that it was python free, and just sleep.

He sighed inwardly, slowing to a stop at the red light. He sat for what felt like an hour, tapping his fingers restlessly. He was wondering if Dean would care if he just pulled over to the side of the road and slept there. Probably would wake up to some hobo trying to molest them. Ew.

The light slipped to green and he stepped on the accelerator. They were easing forward, Sam checking both ways on the four was road just to make sure that no idiots were trying to get past before- "HOLY SHIT!" He yelled, his eyes cart wheeling from the left to the road ahead and seeing a truck swerving at them drunkenly with dangerous speed.

He jerked the wheel to the right, off the road, and watched the Ford swivel away. He cursed the driver under his breath and turned to make sure Dean was still asleep. Yup. A friggin marching band could wake Dean up when the loudest forte they could manage.

So he continued driving, checking every once in a while if Dean was still asleep and enjoying that he had actually managed to get him to agree (More or less) to allow him to drive the precious Impala. That was pretty rare. It was also rare that he had forced Dean to get over to the passenger side. But he had seen how slowly Dean had been moving, how tiredly he moved. Even if Dean himself hadn't noticed.

Dean mumbled something about bacon in his sleep. Talking in his sleep was just one of his odd subconscious tendencies that Sam seldom brought to his elder brother's attention, so he probably thought it was just something he did when he was having a nightmare.

Sam actually kind of enjoyed the ramblings. He usually just talked about food and hunting, but he could occasionally say something blackmail worthy. For example: Quietly whispering "Teapot." Before rolling over. Ha ha, priceless.

Sam rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He wasn't going to fall asleep. No. If he was guessing correctly, the next motel was only a mile or so away (he was wrong) so he figured he would be okay. But the journey wasn't going to be easy, because his legs were just about ready to fall off… or he wouls cut them off, seeing as how they were falling asleep.

He forced himself to keep the Impala traveling forward, conjuring up a nice, hard, scratchy motel room bed. He smiled.

_SCRREEE! _He jumped out of his thoughts, jerking his head in the direction of the eerie echo of metal screeching and a horn blaring. He spotted a semi coming straight at him. A tire had popped off of its red front, red sparks flying out as it stuttered across the road. The driver struggled to gain control, throwing the steering wheel left in right in a mad attempt to force it away from the Impala.

"Fuck!" Sam stretched his right arm out in front of Dean's chest, like a defensive mother trying to shielded her child from an attack. He turned his face away from the direction of the semi and turned to face Dean. His brother yawned and began to rise from the fog of slumber.

CRASH!

The semi slammed into the driver's side, sending shards of glass shooting from the windows and at their exposed flesh. Metal collapsed and bent towards them in an attempt to hug their fragile bones. The interior of the metal trap was filed with blood in an instant.

It pushed the Impala back, dropping it down off the road. It flipped, bouncing a couple times before landing upside down.

"Dean."

A/N 2- How was it? I think I'll make it a two shot, but I could try to stretch it out to three.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer- Supernatural is so far from being mine that it hurts me physically.

Summery- Dean's first thought was: why am I upside down? His second thought was: Sammy's dead.

A/N- I honestly can't say why this took so insanely long for me to write, but here it is. Yay!

Cold Nights

Chapter two-

Dean's first conscious thought was: why am I upside down? He was dangling with his finger tips scraping the top of the Impala. He swayed gently back and forth, strapped to the seat by the locked seat belt. His head was pounding and an eerie numb sort of pain was thrumming up and down his leg, gathering in a giant pain-cluster right below his knee. It was probably broken. He groaned and tried moving around, but the metal molding around him constricted movement.

He closed his eyes, fighting back the nausea that was trying to shoot bile up his throat. He swallowed twice, trying to focus on something else, such as the pounding in his skull or the heavy feeling in his head from all the blood trying to fill it up. When the queasiness faded, he opened his eyes and saw, with a clearer head, a dark mass in his peripheral vision. He turned to his left, sucking in a deep, quick, lung full of breath when he saw the big sack of blood, hair and meat.

His second thought was: Sammy's dead. Something in his gut squeezed and his heart jammed itself up into his throat. Sams face was covered in blood that poured from cuts spread across it and streamed from his slightly parted lips and flaring nostrils. One arm, the one closer to Dean, was snapped grotesquely back at the elbow, the bone peaking through the broken and bruised flesh that puckered around it. These injuries, though scary, were things they could handle, things they _had _handled many times. The injury that really worried Dean was the bent metal that had dug itself into his stomach and protruded out of the bloody cushion on the other side.

"Sam? SAM!" Dean yelped, stretching out his left arm and tried to grip his younger brother's shoulder. He yelped and yanked it back, staring at the brutally snapped and disfigured member that had once been his hand. He clenched his back teeth, shoving his hand into his pocket where he wouldn't have to look at or think about it again for a long while.

Hitting Sam's shoulder only caused him to rock to the extent that the metal would allow, allowing his arm to wave and the broken one to stick sickly where it was. Dean pursed his lips and tried again, waiting desperately for his brother to react. Nothing; just a limp body hanging by a seatbelt and metal.

Dean took a deep, trembling breath and rolled his neck. _Sam is fine. Sam is fine. Calm down, Sam is fine. Sam is fine, Calm down. Calm. The. Fuck. Down. _What deity had they pissed off so bad? He shook his head and reached out, hitting Sam a little harder this time. Nothing.

So, there he was, hanging like an idiot with his less than alive brother, with no fucking idea what his next move was. He considered his situation for a few beats without success before deciding that he would probably be able to think better right side up. He found the release button on his seat belt, gave a quick prayer to the big man upstairs, braced himself, and pressed the button.

He curved his body so that his back would slam against the ceiling instead of cracking his head open and having his brains splayed all about (he knew that that wouldn't happen without a bit more height). His shoulder blades snapped down and his head popped against the top of the car, releasing a sound like when a child smashed two blocks together. His leg bounced inertly on the backrest of his seat and Dean squawked awkwardly, bending and growling like an animal. He placed a careful hand on his leg and waved a clenched fist around like he was threatening someone.

He was struck by the sudden, odd craving for a kielbasa. He wondered if this was part of his injuries or if his brain was just naturally being weird. He decided not to dwell on things that didn't matter. Then his mind flowed to more morbid ideas, like how cool it would be if he could replace his squashed hand with a gun or a blade to aid them in their hunting. Or how Sammy kinda looked like the animals they hang in freezers at the butcher's, except there was no ice frosting his skin, and he _had _skin and clothes on. He decided that he must have thunked his head pretty freaking hard.

He allowed himself to observe their surroundings. The Impala was a mess, her frame crushed and molded into something more like a parallelogram than her usual sleek shape. The roof was digging into the dirt below his head, and the ceiling was covered with the blood that was steadily dripping from the brothers' bodies. Most of the windows were shattered, but the windshield was merely branded with a crack, which shared its appearance with your average spider web. He imagined reaching out and pushing on the glass, wondered if it would shatter and fall around him and Sam.

He glanced back at his brother, taking in how wrong his body looked, and decided to try to wake him again. He realized that when you were right side up in an upside down car there was absolutely no room to move. Dean sighed before leaning enough that he was facing his brother, and hefted himself up onto his elbow. He gently reached out and wiped the blood from Sam's face, mostly just smearing it, though some did come off onto his sleeve and hand. His face was covered moments later with fresh blood, and Dean worried that he was losing too much too fast, which was probably a given if you really thought about it.

He gingerly patted Sam's face with his hand, cupping his cheek with the other. Sam remained completely still, so Dean slapped him a little harder, hoping that he hadn't obtained any sort of head injury that his head bashing could worsen. Sam's head wobbled loosely in the air, still out cold. Dean's jaw jutted out and he let a stream of air out through his nose. He held Sam's head in place with one hand and brought the other back, silently praying that he wasn't about to kill his baby brother, and whipped it forward, clouting Sam so smartly that his head snapped to the side and the area of impact immediately flushed.

Sam inhaled sharply, breath stinging his throat. Dean sighed with relief, gently patting his brother's shoulder, hoping he hadn't done any more damage than what was already there. Sam's eyes flickered open and closed and he searched the area in front of him.

"Dean?"

"Yeah. Sammy, hi." He said his breath hot on Sam's face. Sam stared at him for a few silent moments, squinting and blinking like an elderly man trying to get a good look at something.

"You're upside down, Dean." He whispered dumbly, letting his eyes relax from their odd flickering. Dean allowed a small smile to stretch his mouth, then felt it fade when Sam allowed his own and chocked on his own chuckle.

"Sam, I'm not the one that's upside down." a line appeared between Sam's brows and he tried to look up and see what his brother was talking about. Dean grabbed his chin with his non-mutilated hand and shook his head. _Don't move. _

"Help me down." Sam breathed, surprised at how hard it was to speak. He wrinkled his eyebrows, squinting slightly, and tried to take a deep breath. It felt wrong, like someone was sitting on his chest. He let the air out in a trembling gasp, face crumpled with confusion. He was suddenly aware of a burning hot knot in his gut, surrounded by chilled numbness.

"Sammy, I can't. You need to stay as still as possible until I find a way to get you down." Dean said quietly and quickly. Sam bit his lip and nodded, trying to keep his eyes on Dean's, to not think about the searing pain he could feel tearing at his chest and stomach.

But his hand still wandered, slithering up his stomach in search of what was causing him pain. He frowned when his fingers touched the fabric of his shirt that was soaked in blood. Only a few inches further up and his hand was stopped by a metal rod.

"Oh." Was all he could say. Sam let his eyes waver to it but quickly looked back at Dean's worried stare. His blood sodden shirt was twisted and tangled around the rod, hiding the flesh the best it could, but between the shreds he could see the purple, bruised fleshy tissue pucker and gather around the metal. "Oh." 

"Oh." Dean mimicked, grimacing thoughtfully. Sam tried to force his own smile but it came up dry and felt like he was stretching his lips too far. He decided let his face relax. He shifted uncomfortably, gasping when the metal rod brushed against broken skin.

Dean's hands flew out and grabbed onto Sam, one cupping his cheek and the other slapping his shoulder painfully. He gasped and yanked it back like he had just grasped hot metal instead of cool skin. Sam's eyes followed the hand all the way to Dean's chest, where he was squeezing his wrist and hanging his head over it like a shade. The hazel irises were surrounded in a sea of white as his eyelids pulled back in shock.

"_Dean, your hand!" _He spit out shrilly, reaching out into empty air with the arm that wasn't broken. He flinched again, but bit his tongue to keep from yelping. His fingers connected with Dean's head and curled around his short hair. His brother looked up from his shaking hand and flashed a flustered grin, feigning his usual confidence.

"Jammed my finger." He joked, shoving it back in his pocket. He blinked away the tears that had formed and forced a smile. Sam didn't buy it, but didn't push.

"Tired." Sam said, voice slurred and pinched with pain. His eyes were fighting against him and he blinked rapidly, some invisible force trying to hold the lids down harder and harder each time they closed.

"I know, Sammy, but you're gonna have to keep me company for a little while. I need to find my phone." Dean said, more to himself than Sam, as an afterthought. He twisted around; searching for the lost doodad that he could have sworn was in his pocket. He frowned, locked in an awkward angle in the limited space, and hoped to God that his phone didn't fly out the window.

"Dean." Sam whispered, searching around his body with his shaking hands. Dean twisted around so that he was lying on his stomach with his legs curled up and his arms stretched out to search every crevice his phone could be wedged in.

"Not now, Sammy."

"Dean." His voice was strained by annoyance and lassitude. He found his pocket and dipped his hand in for a brief moment before pulling it back out and holding his hand out to Dean. Sam's fingers were curled around his phone. The screen was cracked, but the light was still on and it appeared to be in working condition.

Dean stared at Sam's trembling hand for a few seconds before nodding and taking it from him. He shifted around, getting in the closest version of an up right sitting position he could and clicked open the contacts list on Sam's cell phone. Through the corner of his eyes he noticed Sam's arms wriggling around as he tried to find a good place to put his arms without just letting them hang down to the impala's roof. He eventually settled on gripping uncomfortably to the metal rod.

Dean clicked on Bobby's number and pressed the phone to his ear.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N- My story updates are becoming more and more sporadic. I really need to work on that, but high school and the extracurricular activities I have joined (drama club, art club, and book club…absolutely no sports) take up a lot of time.

Cold Nights

Chapter three-

Bobby swallowed his concern, instead choosing a distinctly faded area on his yellowing wall and considered buying some paint and mending the old place up. He was remembering how it had looked when they had first bought the house and an image of Karen standing up on a crate with her arms straining to sweep the brush over a part of the wall that had once been an ugly salmon color budded in his head, and decided that the walls looked nice with age.

Outside, an owl hooted; shocking his shoulders into a bunch along his neck. He flipped his cap from his head and carded his fingers through his rough hair. His boys never didn't call, not matter how banged up or tired they were. They would either call him on the road or as they bandaged each other up, but there was always a call.

The mother hen in him won over the tired realist and his hand snapped over the phone, fingers curling in on it like a cage. He began to scroll through his contacts, searching for Dean's name, when the cell came to life; lighting up and buzzing softly in his hand. He pushed the answer button hard and pressed it to his ear.

"Took you long enough. I just about reported you two mis-."

"We need help." The simplicity and bluntness in the statement twisted around Bobby's temples and stomach and squeezed. Sam and dean were not big fans of calling for help, unless that help was research of some kind, and there was no way that they already had a case.

"What the hell did you do this time?" He grunted, moving to put his boots on. He held the phone up with his shoulder and crouched. His knees popped loudly like big rocks pounding the ground. He paused, waiting to see if he had missed anything dean had said.

"Not what you're expecting. I need you to come take the weapons and demon-killing stuff from the Impala." The line was quiet with confusion, and Bobby stared at the fraying edges of his boots. Dean had been right, that was definitely not what he had expected. Not even remotely close. Bobby clamped his eyes shut, opened them, and continued.

"Why?" It was said like a tired old man who didn't want to give his grandchild a piggyback ride. It seemed now like the biggest danger they were in was that they wanted to get into a drive-in theater or something that you can't have weapons in your car for. He allowed the earlier fear to seep out of him.

"We crashed it. The Impala." Dean's voice was tugged away from the phone distractedly. Bobby forgot how to breathe, his throat struggling with all the word that were fighting for passage through his lips. He settled on a groan.

"Are you boys okay?" He finally spit out. He could almost hear Dean's swallow of uncertainty, feel his eyes dart from the darkness through the window and to his brother. Bobby dragged his coat over his arms, rushed down the steps and tried to remember where his truck was parked.

"No…um. Sammy's going to need a hospital. I need to hang up Bobby."

And the line went dead. Bobby dropped it on the ground and sprinted to his truck.

XXX

"Hey Dean?" Sam's voice was silent, his lips only moving as much as they had to in order to form the words. Dark blood was oozing from the crack between his lips and, because he was hanging upside down by a pole, ran up his temple and matted in his hair. Dean sat up and leaned closer to hear him. He moved slowly, sore from the crash he had somehow slept through.

"What's up, Sammy?" He croaked, his eyes falling half shut. Sam's breath shuddered and a wobbling hand patted Dean's shoulder. Dean clasped it in his unwounded hand and squeezed it tightly.

"Gonna pass out." His voice sounded cottony and tired. The hand Dean was holding uncurled and his other arm slid from where it was wrapped around the pole. Dean pushed himself closer to Sam. His little brother's eyes had rolled back into his head and his mouth popped open to reveal red stained teeth. Dean lightly smacked his cheek, his intestines knotting with anxiety. Sam didn't open his eyes, and a shiver slammed into Dean's back, bunching his shoulder and twisting his neck. He snapped out of it and continued to pat his unconscious siblings face.

Nothing. His heart pounding angrily in his chest and Dean brought his face closer to Sam's mouth. He could feel quick light breath push against his temple. Sam was alive. Dean was worried that if he didn't stay conscious, his relief would be short-lived.

"Sorry, kiddo." He grumbled, and shoved his index finger between Sam's broken flesh and the cold metal. He tried not to think about what he was touching, or the possible consequences of sticking your dirty and bloody finger into an already irritated injury, or how he could easily shift the rod over into his brother's spine. But he would rather have a chair-bound brother than none at all. Sam's eyes flashed open and a choking gurgle fluttered from his throat. His hands flew out and gripped the front of Dean's jacket tightly.

Dean leaned in closely to Sam and wrapped his bad hand around him in a type of hug, the position awkward with the pole bursting from his stomach. "C'mon Sammy. Breathe with me for a second. This is going to hurt really badly, so just squeeze me. Alright?"

He felt Sam nod and slowly slid his finger out of the wound. Sam groaned and tugged Dean in closer to him, his nails digging into Dean's back. The finger came out red, with a chunk of something stuck to the side. He swallowed sickly and wiped it off speedily on his pants. Then he hugged Sam hard and leaned back, one hand resting on his brother's shoulder.

"Thanks." Sam huffed, and Dean nodded, holding back the urge to vomit and cry.

XXX

A bright light pried Dean's eyes open. He blinked and jerked a hand over his face in an attempt to block out the searing pain. The light faded, and Dean turned to check on Sam. He couldn't tell what color his little brother's shirt was originally, but blood had dyed it a dark red. His chest shuddered with quick breath, and strong exhales flung specks of blood from his mouth. Sam's eyes were slits of white underlined by purple blotches.

Dean reached out a hand to jostle Sam, not wanting him to be unconscious until he had a professional telling him it was okay. But before his fingertips could make contact with Sam, the bright light returned, but this time it attacked from the side. Dena jumped and brought his hands back up to his face. The light was quickly shifted to the side so that it was aimed at Sam, then away from them both. Dean put his hand down and squinted into the darkness.

Bobby's eyes were trained on Sam, his face contorted into shock and pain at the sight of the younger man. Dean tapped the window, and Bobby slowly lifted a hammer for Dean to see. Dean nodded and scooted back away from the window, covering his and Sam's eyes. Bobby swung. The glass shattered and flew, sharp pieces bouncing off of Dean's jacket. The loud crash made Dean jump; the pain of his baby squeezing his heart. The hammer popped down on the corners, clipping off the remains of the Impala's passenger side window. He leaned in through the empty space and clapped Dean's shoulder with his hand.

"This is gonna be a bitch to fix." He coughed, handing Bobby the keys. He nodded before disappearing behind the Impala. The trunk was snapped around, the crash having broken it up badly enough that Bobby was unsure if he would be able to pop it open. He jammed the key in the crooked lock, forced it to twist, and ripped the trunk open.

Dean could hear Bobby moving things around behind him. It was oddly soothing to know that, although their situation was shitty, they weren't alone. He almost wanted him to stay, but the longer he was there the longer it would be before Dean could call an ambulance and save Sammy. The paramedics would probably be a bit confused as to why there was a guy taking things from the trunk of a crashed vehicle.

"Sammy?" He whispered, moving again to wake him. Hazel shifted in the small crack between his eyelids and stopped on Dean. Sam's hand slapped his arm, but didn't hold on. Dean couldn't tell if he was too weak or just wanted to show him he was awake and the manhandling could close down. "I'm calling the ambulance, Sam. It's gonna be okay now."

"'M Sorry D'n." He moaned, wincing and slamming his eyes shut. Dean's throat constricted at the evident pain, and his stomach flipped.

"Why's that?" He asked, nodding at Bobby through the back window. Bobby was pulling a tarp over the bed of his truck to conceal the weapons he had secured back there. He slowly pushed up a thumb, showing that he was all ready. Then out came The Look. The one he had received from his father more times than he could count; 'you had better take care of that boy and make sure he comes out of this okay'. Dean didn't need the look to know that making Sam safe was his job, and one he was happy to do.

'I cr'shed the 'pala." Sam slurred, and his jaw wobbled. Dean furrowed his brow, because that would be the one thing in all of this that he was upset about. He was attached to their car's seat by a metal rod, upside down, and he was sorry that he had hurt the Impala. Dean shook his head, thinking his younger brother had lost his ever loving mind.

"I think she'll survive, man. I'm more worried about you right now." He whipped out Sam's phone, which he had held in a sweaty palm this entire time, and prepared to dial 911.

Which was when the tears began to stream down his face. He cleared his throat and wiped his face wit his good hand, dropping the cell phone in his lap. He sniffed as quietly as he could and picked the phone back up, trying to hit the green call button with his vibrating finger. Sweat and tears burned his eyes and snot ran over his lip. His cleared it all away with his sleeve and took a deep shaky breath.

It was an unfortunate that his tear buds decided to work when he was smashed in a small space with his hurt baby brother, who he was supposed to be a rock for. Dean wasn't even certain why he was crying. His hand hurt like the dickens, but he had definitely felt worse. Sure, his baby was bruised like a peach, but she had been damaged before and he knew he could fix her. And it couldn't be that Sammy was dying, because that could never happen again. He pressed his fists into his eyes until it hurt, but the tears kept tumbling down his face and off his chin. An unfamiliar groan scratched his throat and he bundled in on himself.

And then there was Sam's blood stained hand, flailing about in a desperate attempt to reach him. He extended his arm blindly until the fingers brushed against his dark hair and he could grab hold. Dean stole the hand away from his hair and scrunched it in his superior hand, managing to hold on to both it and the cell.

The hand and cell phone both slipped away from him and his fingers dug into his palm. He lifted his head, the tears finally stopped, and watched Sam raise the phone to his ear and wait for someone to answer and come save them. He sighed and handed the phone back over to Dean to talk to the operator.

A/N 2- I guess I'm ending chapters with the beginning of phone calls now.


	4. Chapter 4

Cold Nights

A/N- Writer's block sucks. I haven't updated this story for so long that I wrote this chapter shorter than intended just so I could give you something. I am sorry if it sucks, but I was having such a hard time writing it. Next chapter is supposed to be the last.

Also, a snippet of this chapter gets a bit weird because Dean's head is wonky from seeing a big metal stick poking out of Sam. Just hang in there for those four paragraphs.

Chapter Four-

Dean's hazy vision squared up with Sam, a soft puff of exhaustion excreting from between his lips as he slowly hefted himself into a sitting position. Sam's chest was heaving desperately, hunting hungrily for a wisp of air. His long fingers were scraping angrily up and down the rod that had him pinned to the seat, streaking the silver with thin lines of red. The wail of sirens tore out through the trees, and Dean grunted in slight relief.

"Hold on Sammy. They're coming." He huffed, gingerly rubbing his brother's shoulder with his good hand and looking out the window, waiting for the ambulance to hurry up and find them. The closest thing to a response Dean got was Sam's bloody gurgle, dark rivulets pouring from his mouth and up his face.

He couldn't wait anymore.

Using his good hand to punch the remaining glass from the window, Dean crawled over the broken shards that smashed under his weight and pushed under the skin in is hand and knees. He cussed and stood up shakily, plucking shards from his pants.

He began stumbling dizzily, each step leaving him feeling more and more uneven, like he was bent at a right angle and doing serpentine along the thick tracks of torn ground the Impala left behind it. He lost his balance and dropped to the ground, chomping down on his tongue and curling in on himself angrily. He lifted his hand and glared at the disfigured lump. Crisp bone poked through blotchy and purple tattered skin. He blinked hard before pushing himself back to his feet.

His feet scraped against the road and he eased his weight from one foot to the other, trying to stay conscious. He waited impatiently for too long before flashing lights rolled up the road. Dean leapt out when it was about twenty yards away. The ambulance driver slammed his palm down on the horn angrily before slamming on its breaks. Dean limped to the driver's side, and the driver leaned out the window.

"The accident is back here." Dean forced out, waving his arm tiredly before easing himself to the ground.

XXX

It was difficult to maintain a strong grip on Sam's bloody fingers, but Dean managed. The tread on his shoes seemed to clutch desperately to the linoleum, and he stumbled drunkenly beside his brother's stretcher. Hard fingers steeled themselves in an irate curve over his shoulder. Dean dragged it along with him, ears pushing out the voices around him hollering at him that he needed to leave so they could operate on his brother. Blood dribbled on the floor, having soaked right through the material below Sam.

"Sir, please. We need to get you to your own room to be checked out. The nurses and doctors can take care of your brother now." A stern looking woman with red hair twisted into a braid behind her head.

"S'okay Sammy, I've got you." He whispered; def to all other noise but his brother's gaunt breaths. He gently patted the hand, sending red splatters out for the walls and nurses to catch.

More hands latched to his back, and the weight became too much for him to continue walking. He slowly dipped his head to look at what had anchored him. As he moved, something sharp dug into his neck and a sudden thick chill released under his skin. Words tumbled from his throat in lumps and Dean crumpled.

XXX

The lights buzzed. Dean stared up and the greenish light above him and listened to it groan. His thoughts were thickened like honey and he was almost asleep, his casted hand fallen over his stomach and the other laid out alongside his head.

His door was propelled open and the hasty clamor of the hallway drew him from his drugged thoughts. Dean tilted his head to look at who had opened the door and woken him up. He shot up into a sitting position as soon as he saw who it was.

The nurse stared at his stiff position on the white bed and gazed into his glassy eyes. She was afraid of him, he realized. It was an odd but not completely unfamiliar feeling. She forced a smile and quickly strode up to him, her hands outstretched like he was going to leap at her. He doubted that her thin arms could hold him back if he really decided to hurt her. He wouldn't, of course. But he could.

"Hello, Mr. Singer. I need to check your condition." She said; her voice a shaky whisper. He smiled and stuck out his arm so she could access the cast easily. She sighed quietly and took the last few steps before she was within touching distance. Her hand was sweaty when she gingerly observed the thick covering of his hand.

"How's my brother?" Dean croaked, and he realized how long it had been since he had spoken. The nurse blinked down at him and took a large step from the bed. Her fake smile appeared again and he wondered why she was so afraid of him.

"He… he's in critical condition." She mumbled reluctantly; obviously not comfortable with divulging the information on Sam. Dean tossed the blanket back and pushed himself out of bed. The nurse curled her arms closer to her chest, tightening her grip on the clip board. He stretched a little, sore from lack of movement, and moved closer to the woman.

"What's his room number?" He asked, opening drawers around the room in search of his clothes. She watched him closely, her dark eyes squinted distrustfully. He opened the last drawer within reach before turning to face her with a questioning glance. "And where are my clothes?"

"He doesn't have a room yet. Well, one has been set up for him, but he hasn't gotten to it yet. And your clothes were too dirty and torn from the accident to wear and are in the laundry area. They will be returned to you after they are washed. You should probably call someone to bring you something." She had been slowly stepping farther away from him throughout the entire conversation, and finished answering his questions on the other side of the room.

"Why isn't he in his room?"

"He's still in surgery. You understand that with his extensive injuries there was a lot of work they needed to do." He nodded slowly, trying not to imagine what they had to do to fix up that giant hole in his baby brother's gut, or how impossible his survival seemed.

XXX

The doctors were pretty sure the new patient was a goner. There was no possible way that a kid with a hole that big in his center could survive. Not to say that they didn't try, because they always did. None of them wanted to have to face the family and tell them that their family member or friend had died, and knowing that they hadn't tried their hardest would only make it worse.

Silver utensils were passed from nurse to doctor and back to a different nurse. Comments were mumbled back and forth- most negative, some hopeful- receiving nods of agreement and snorts of doubt. The doctor was sweating and someone swiped a cloth across his forehead, which seemed a bit dramatic and movie-like.

The beat of the monitor picked up and the doctor paused, listening to his patient's heart beat and feeling his own pulse trembling in his neck and fingers. He had experienced pressure before, sure. He was pretty used to high-risk patients being tossed before him, and the knowledge that their life completely depended on how he performed his duties was something he had grown accustomed to- though he still had nightmares.

But this was different. It was almost like someone was peeking over his shoulder, clucking their tongue disapprovingly when he moved his tool to make a risky move. A commanding voice whispered for him to be careful, to take extra care to pull this patient through. It was a voice so cold it burned. Like the Devil himself was guiding the surgery.

XXX

All he could feel was bliss. All the pain and stress seemed to be pulled out of him, a comfortable burn settled perfectly in his belly that made him want to coil under the covers and sleep. Lightness plucked at him and shifted his body and he was sure that he had come to heaven by mistake.

It was nice to feel like he had as a young child; innocent and untouched by the sin that jumbled the world he had been forced for so long to trudge through. A delicate smile nudged his lips and eyes, and he sighed in liberation.

But there was emptiness. It was apparent from the beginning, something that you live being aware of and know instantly when it isn't there. It gnawed at his chest as his eyes curved around under trapping lids. His back cambered angrily and breath rasped from deep in his throat.

"He's choking." Someone announced through some sort of material (cloth. A mask), and hands were jabbing and prodding invasively at his face and neck. He gargled on his words and tried to force his eyelids to oblige to his demands to move. It felt like someone had cocooned his body in a thick wool blanket, easily restricting his movement.

"Keep his back down, for God's sake! If he jerks too damn much, the guts are gonna be on the floor!" Someone snapped, and Sam groaned deep in his throat, hands slamming his shoulder blades so they were planted on the table.

"_Geh!"_ He yowled, eyes lolling in the darkness, trying to find what he had lost.

XXX

If Dean had all the money in the world, he would buy a translator for the doctor he had been trying to understand for the past fifteen minutes. It wasn't that he spoke a different language or had some sort of accent, the guy just mumbled. Badly. It wasn't even the kind of mumble where someone insults you under their breath and you can somewhat understand what they said. It was a bit more kin to the Swedish Chef, but without the whole "Swedish" thing.

And Bobby was standing right next to him, arms crossed over his chest and head bobbling like he was getting every word. Dean watched him, waiting for something to show on his face that would tell him if the doctor was giving them bad or good news. But he just kept a solid look on his face, like he was watching some documentary on how the cheetah hunts.

After a few minutes of confusion, the two older men nodded at each other and the doctor left. Dean and Bobby stood stock still for a few seconds, waiting for the doctor to be out of ear shot before Dean poked him in the arm.

"What the hell did he just tell us?" He grumbled, squinting at the man that had to have the best ears in all of America.

"They said that there are some 'abnormalities' occurring during surgery." Bobby grumped, dropping down into his oddly-patterned chair beside Dean's bed and popping off his hat.

"Abnormalities? Like what." He moved closer to the other man, eyes pouring over Bobby's. He searched for any sign of worry or fear.

"They have him conked out with some pretty strong stuff."

"…So it's their fault?" Dean asked, eyebrows rising. If they were actually managing to make Sammy worse, he was going to beat the living shi-.

"No. Sam keeps _moving_. And choking."

Bobby's chin quivered. _Quivered. _Dean leaned closer, brows digging across skin until they were almost touching, because he didn't think he had ever seen Bobby have such a reaction to anything. He hadn't really ever seem the man cry.

"Bobby?"

"He said… Dean, he said Sammy's not gonna make it."


End file.
